


Paper Illusion

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Common Cold, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fever, Fever Dreams, Gen, Hell Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Past Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Chuck Shurley, Protective Sam Winchester, Season/Series 07, Sick Dean Winchester, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-24
Updated: 2012-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s fever climbs, drags him back into lucidity and lays him bare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Illusion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mad_server](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mad_server).



> **_A/N:_** This is my fill for **mad_server** ’s [prompt](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/549500.html?thread=7156092#t7156092) at **hoodie_time** 's [A Dean-Focused H/C Fic And Art Challenge](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/549375.html) which went thusly: _I miss Chuck. Here is my plan. Chuck never disappeared. Now it's S7 and Chuck can still see things about the boys' psyches and their near-futures. The boys hole up with him for a little while. Chuck knows that Dean is barely holding it together, and also that he's about to go down hard with the flu. So he's like, "Here Dean, you can have the room closest to the bathroom," and Dean is like, "Uh, thanks?" and Chuck is like "I got you four boxes of Kleenex" and Dean is like, "Why?" and Chuck is like "No reason, uh Sam you should get closer to him now" and Sam is like, "Huh? OH SHIT" and catches Dean as he goes all dizzy wobbly fainty. Or something. At some point Chuck clues Sam in as to how crappy things really are for Dean. Also it might be funny if Chuck was a bit of a germaphobe and so always knew when Dean was going to need help but made Sam actually do the dirty work. MOST DETAILED PROMPT EVER. My apologies if that's constrictingly specific. Gen or Sam/Dean, love me both of those!_.
> 
> Occurs sometime between _7x01 MEET THE NEW BOSS_ and _7x02 HELLO, CRUEL WORLD_. Let’s just pretend Canon allows for such timeline liberties, mmmkay?
> 
> Special thanks to: A bazillion smishes to **i_speak_tongue** for being awesome and giving this such a rock-hard beta. Also, bonus cupcakes to **kalliel** for handholding me through the spit-and-polish. Much thanks to **hoodie_time** for hosting this and for being such an incredible comm. Also, **mad_server** , thank you for such a great prompt and letting me run with it - I hope this one is somewhere in the ballpark of what you were looking for...
> 
>  _ **Disclaimer:**_ Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada. Also, I do not own the song _Round And Round (It Won't Be Long)_ by Neil Young – just borrowing the lyrics for the title, so don’t sue.

They’re in the middle of the woods in northern Minnesota, riding down an endless two-lane road. A wet drizzle is falling, too light for the windshield wipers, but on this side of too heavy to see clearly. There is nothing distinctive or memorable about their surroundings — the blacktop identical to the miles of other asphalt roads they’ve traversed, the evergreens thick and dense on either side.

Dean coughs wetly off to the side, angling his face from Sam and muffling his mouth with his shoulder.

“You okay? You sound like crap.” Sam’s voice is soft, unsure, and he digs his thumb into the healing scar on his other palm.

“I’m fine. ‘Sides, I’m not the one who’s got the devil riding shotgun,” Dean grits out, his voice coming out as though he’s gargled glass.

**::: ::: :::**

“Dean, slow down.” Sam suddenly straightens in his seat.

Dean brakes as he sees the figure walking along the right shoulder of the road, a large paper grocery bag balanced against his hip, held in the curve of his arm. He slows to a near stop as the figure sticks out his left hand, thumb thrust out, and takes in the beard and messy hair, the slump in his shoulders. “Isn’t that Chuck?” His voice is tinged with surprise.

Sam turns the window crank, opening the window despite the cold, rainy autumn day.

The figure turns and faces them.

“Oh. Uh. Hey guys. Right on time. Got room for one more?”

**::: ::: :::**

Chuck’s perched uncomfortably in the backseat, looking disheveled and weary.

“Uh,” he says awkwardly, breaking the silence. “I’m really sorry, guys. About everything. Especially for your soul.” He gestures lamely at Sam’s head. “You know. The whole wall thing.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says tightly, squeezing the still-raw scar on his palm with the thumb of his other hand and clenching his jaw so hard a muscle tics and pops.

“…And about Cas. Man, I’m sorry. I really thought he was going to do the right thing and…”

“Shut up,” Dean cuts in, a hard edge to his voice, “just shut the fuck up.” His growl tapers off, fades.

Chuck falls silent and long, uncomfortable seconds tick by.

“So… uh… What brings you here?” Sam asks too cheerfully, his tone forced, staring out at the bleak brown landscape of northern Minnesota.

Chuck lets out a relieved sigh. “Solitude, mostly. I had to get away from it all. The fans. Everything. They didn’t much like the way the last book ended.”

Dean smacks the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. “Dammit, Chuck. You’re still fucking _writing_?” The words come out half strangled, as though he’s talking around rocks.

Chuck has the good grace to duck his head and look ashamed. “There are no conventions anymore. Not since that one where you showed up. And I haven’t published any since _Swan Song_. But the last two-dozen or so books…” He lets out a long exhale. “They’re collector items, actually. There’s less than a hundred copies of each out there.” He takes a deep breath. “I tried to stop writing. Really, I did. But I couldn’t. I was going insane. I have to write. Only I’m not publishing them any more. They’re all in a box back at the house… Oh, here. Take this left…” he trails off as Dean leaves the paved road for a bumpy gravel path.

They lapse into silence, the quietness broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath the rubber tires. Then, just ahead, the narrow road opens and there is a small house, little more than a shack, sitting the middle of a tiny clearing, surrounded on all sides by dense pine trees. The drizzle falls harder.

“This is it?” Dean says, feeling as though he’s seen it before. Or something like it, when he’d traveled to the future that one time and saw a world of Croatoans and Lucifer. He shudders, feels sweat break out on his face. _Not real_ , he tells himself, glancing at Sam. _It didn’t happen. Sam saved the world. There’s no Lucifer_. He catches a glimpse of Sam squeezing his scar and Sam smiles tightly at him — no Prince of Hell riding shotgun. Just stress.

He clears his throat as he throws the car into park. “Well, here you go. Home sweet home. Now if you’ll thank us and get out of the car, we’ll go off on our merry way.”

Chuck freezes, half out of the car. “Oh no, I couldn’t. I mean, I knew you’d be coming and I bought these… um… things for you. It wouldn’t do…” He trails off, biting his lip. “Please stay. At least for the night. It’s the least I can do after everything…”

Dean looks up at Sam and Sam shrugs, nods. _It’s not like we’ve got anywhere else to go_. Exhaling, Dean grunts and opens his door.

Chuck leads them up the creaking steps and, shifting the bag to one hip, reaches out and jiggles the doorknob. The door gives way and he leads them into a dusty kitchen, laptop sitting on the table, its power cord snaking along the floor like a garter snake to the plug.

“Nice place,” Dean quips, shutting the door behind Sam. “Love the cobweb décor.”

Chuck sets the bag down by the laptop, fixes him with a long stare then reaches into the bag. “I figured you’d need some supplies.” He begins pulling out tissue boxes, each one printed with scenes from Pixar movies — _Cars_ , _Finding Nemo_ , and _Ratatouille_ — stacking them into two piles of three high. “Dean, you can take the room closest to the bathroom.” He ducks, rubs the back of his neck. “Do you mind taking the futon in the living room, Sam? It should be long enough.”

“Uh. Sure,” Sam stammers as Chuck begins pulling out cans of Campbell tomato soup and a small bag of rice along with bottles of Gatorade and a small tub of Vicks VapoRub.

“What’s all this shit for?”

Chuck shrugs, meets Dean’s gaze and doesn’t flinch. "I told you. I saw you coming and I knew you’d need these."

“I’m sorry but you’ve gone out of your way for nothing,” Dean snarls out, ignoring Sam’s bitchface of _don’t go there and mind your fucking manners_. His threat is undermined by a coughing attack that doubles him over and brings tears to his eyes.

When he’s finished hacking, Chuck’s at his side holding a cardboard box emblazoned with a grinning Lightning McQueen and Tow Mater, the first tissue already pulled up through the slit in the clear plastic middle.

“Doesn’t hurt to be prepared,” Chuck says, shrugging, as Dean glowers at the too-cheerful image in a mixture of disgust and incredulity, simultaneously pulling out several tissues and empties his sinuses into them.

**::: ::: :::**

They’re settling in for dinner when Dean goes down. One moment he’s walking beside Sam, the next he’s three paces behind, in the doorway, ashen and sweaty-looking.

“Sam….” Chuck manages to get the warning out a half-second before Dean’s eyes roll back into his head and his knees give out from beneath him, his legs turning into jelly. Sam’s there and catches his brother before he hits the floor, hauling up Dean’s deadweight and bracing him upright with his shoulder. He pats Dean’s cheek and his brother rouses, eyes slitting open.

Dean groans, blinking dazedly. “Wha’ppen’d?” Dean slurs, head lolling to rest on Sam’s chest and Sam can see the pulse fluttering hard and fast at the base of his throat. Dean’s still chalky, gray-faced.

“You fainted,” Sam tells him. “Like a girl,” he adds, forcing levity he doesn’t feel.

Dean raises his head. “Don’t…” he mutters. “Gonna…” There’s a gulp.

“Sam! Bathroom!” Chuck snaps out and, somehow, Sam’s got his brother kneeling and hovering over the toilet before the first surge of vomiting hits.

Between retches and heaves, chunks of food clinging to his lips and bile dripping down his chin, Dean throws Chuck a glance of mute gratitude before putting his head into the toilet again. Chuck hovers in the open doorway, shifting nervously from foot to foot, for a moment longer before shutting the door and granting them privacy.

**::: ::: :::**

Dean’s sick for hours. Finally, sometime in the early hours of morning, he stops trying to expel his stomach through his mouth.

Sam's never properly met Death, not in the way Dean has, but he's pretty sure that from what he remembers, the horseman looked better than Dean does right now.

“How is he?” Chuck asks through the cracked-open bathroom door. He’s got his shirtsleeve pressed up against his nose and mouth.

Sam looks up, exhausted and sweaty, feeling as though he’s been the one going ten rounds with the toilet bowl. “I think he’s done.” He nudges Dean gently, not taking his hand off his brother’s back. “You alive?”

Dean groans, shifts marginally, and settles, forehead resting on the yellowed rim of cracked porcelain. He raises his head, gagging, and spits ineffectually into the water. “Wanna die.”

“No can do. Sorry,” Sam says unapologetically. “C’mon, let’s get you set up someplace more comfortable.”

“Don’t wanna move,” Dean mumbles unhappily, curling over his stomach again.

“Wasn’t giving you a choice, bro.” Sam stands, knees cracking from sitting for so long. He gets his hands in his brother’s armpits and gently drags him upright. Dean moans softly and slumps, loose-limbed and pliable, against him. Sam half-carries, half-drags Dean out of the rank, reeking bathroom and into the bedroom, where he sits his brother on the unmade bed.

Dean’s shaking slightly, hunched in on himself and shivering.

“You’re okay,” Sam tells him, divesting his brother of his sweat-soaked, puke-stained shirt. “I gotcha.”

Dean licks his dry, chapped lips and blinks at him with watery, red-rimmed eyes. “W-wh-what about…” he manages through chattering teeth.

“It’s okay. I’m handling it,” Sam tells him. A shirt and a pair of sweatpants appear in his line of sight. “Uh, thanks,” he says, looking up at Chuck, and it takes a good minute of staring for the fact the smaller man has a paper mask stretched across the lower half of his face to sink in. The clothes are his own but they will be more comfortable than the jeans Dean’s got stocked up in his duffel.

Sam carefully dresses Dean in the worn garments, pausing when it seems like he’s pushing his brother too fast. The look of thanks and appreciation Dean gives him as he covers his brother with the soft snowflake-and-moose patterned flannel sheets and the ripped, worn quilt makes his heart clench.

“Get some sleep,” Sam says roughly, not liking how naked and raw and open Dean’s expression is, knowing his brother would be furious he’s revealed so much.

Dean clenches his jaw and shuts his eyes, closing off everything.

Sam exhales and, after a moment, leaves, gently pulling in the door behind him until he hears it catch.

**::: ::: :::**

Chuck’s waiting outside the door, ridiculous blue mask protecting his nose and mouth. When he talks, his voice comes out muffled and rustling.

“Look, uh,” he begins. “This might be rude but I, uh, was wondering if you’d mind cleaning the bathroom — it’s contaminated and I can’t…” he exhales, making the mask puff out. “I’m just a bit of a germaphobe, okay?”

Sam lets out a sharp bark of a laugh. “You’ve survived angels, demons, and an apocalyptic showdown, but the stomach virus…”

Chuck laughs self-deprecatingly. “I know, right?” His face sobers up. “You’ll at least wipe it down, though?”

**::: ::: :::**

Sam’s sitting at the kitchen table, watching Chuck boiling the rice and stirring the simmering tomato soup.

“Thanks,” he says after a long stretch of silence. “For, y’know, all of this. You didn’t have to. Most people wouldn’t.”

Chuck pivots to face him. He exhales slowly, his expression sad. “Most people don’t know you saved the world. That guy in there…” he nods towards the bedroom door. “Watched his brother throw himself in Lucifer’s Cage.” He has the decency to overlook Sam’s flinch. “Don’t get me wrong, Sam… there aren’t many who could’ve done what you did — trap the devil and throw him back in Hell — and you’ve paid for it. With interest.” He swallows, ducks, engrossed in his shoes for a moment before pressing on. “But don’t think Dean got off scot-free either…” Chuck exhales, turns back to his soup, and throws some oregano into the pot before taking the rice off the gas burner. “It sucked. Like really sucked.”

“I know.”

“Hell, Sam. I wasn’t trying to make you feel guilty and I’m doing a bad job of it.”

“It’s okay,” Sam murmurs, squeezing his scar hard. He swallows, sensing there is more Chuck wants to tell, words that Dean would never put to voice. “Go on.”

**::: ::: :::**

Dean’s fever climbs, drags him back into lucidity and lays him bare.

“I’m sorry about Lisa, Dean,” Chuck whispers, easing back the blanket, his voice faintly muffled by the paper mask stretched across his face. It’s random and all wrong and tears off the oozing scab.

Dean swallows convulsively, rolls onto his side, giving Chuck his back. After a long moment, emotions bubbling just beneath his skin, he takes a deep breath. “I loved ’er. M-maybe not in the way s-she deserved or w-wanted… but I loved ’er,” a sob escapes and he presses his lips tightly together, holding the rest in as he feels hot, stinging, twin tears slip down his face.

“I know.” The soft words aren’t in Chuck’s voice.

Dean twists, craning to look over his shoulder.

Sam’s standing in the doorway, soup bowl in his hands, eyes puppy-damp in a way they haven’t been since before…

“S—“

“It’s okay,” Sam interrupts, walking carefully into the room and sets the bowl on the bedside table and he sits on the edge of the mattress, his hip pressing up against the small of Dean’s back. “You don’t have to say anything.” He reaches out and closes a large hand around Dean’s shoulder. “C’mon, bro, you’re getting all dehydrated.”

Dean lets Sam ease him upright, prop him against the headboard.

“Last time this happened, Lisa did this,” Dean’s voice is quiet, wrecked.

“I know. Chuck filled me in,” Sam matches his tone. “Sorry I wasn’t there.”

“S’not your fault.” His voice is gruff, sharp and dismissive. There’s a pause. Then, low, soft, as though in a confessional: “I miss them, Sam.”

Sam doesn’t know what to say to that.

**::: ::: :::**

It’s dark outside the single window but inside the room is lit by the soft glow of a dim incandescent bulb, further muted by a burgundy lampshade.

Sam lifts the washcloth from Dean’s forehead and flips it over to the cooler, damper side. Dean’s a furnace, blazing beneath his fingertips, despite the fact Sam’s pulled off all the covers and cracked open the window, letting in the cold, damp night air.

Dean squirms on the bed, trying to get away and curl in on himself. He mutters something unintelligible and moans softly, his voice breaking into a higher register.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Dean’s back in Hell with Alastair.

Sam switches out the rag for the one soaking in the bowl of water set out on the bedside table by Chuck.

“It’s not real,” he tells Dean, dabbing the wet cloth against his brother’s hot, dry skin, passing it over his pulse points. “You’re not there. You’re out.”

“Sam?” Dean’s eyes flutter open and they’re fever-bright, pupils blown and not tracking.

“I’m here. I’m not in Hell either. You got me out. Now shut up and go to sleep. I gotcha.”

**::: ::: :::**

Late in the day, Dean stumbles out of the bedroom on coltish, unsteady legs. He’s still much too pale, freckles standing out in stark relief across his cheeks and nose. His hair is greasy, lying flat and matted as he rests his face in the hollow of his folded arms on the kitchen table.

Chuck doesn’t say anything and tucks an unraveling afghan around his shoulders.

After a while, Dean lifts his head and glances at Chuck typing away on his laptop. “Whatcha writing? Anything I should know about?”

Chuck turns his battered machine towards Dean and there’s the line _Dean looked like he’d been hit by a truck_ at the top of the page.

“You need to rewrite that. I’ve been hit by a truck and trust me, it was worse than this.”

**::: ::: :::**

“Thanks Chuck,” Dean mumbles roughly, shaking the smaller man’s hand. “We… We’d better get going.”

He opens the driver’s door to the Impala, tossing the last Kleenex box — _Ratatouille_ — into the backseat, and looks up at the slate colored sky. It’s identical to the one that arched over them three days earlier. He’s still exhausted, still can’t stomach much more than the blandest of foods, but they have to keep moving.

Chuck nods. “Take care. Hang in there.”

“You too,” Dean says as he slips in behind the wheel and slams the heavy door shut.

He’s got the car halfway in reverse when he stops, cranks open his window despite the chilly drizzle. “Hey, Chuck. Think you could write something good for us once in a while?”

Chuck shrugs. “I’ll try. Way I figure it can’t suck forever.”


End file.
